


Hunger

by draculard



Category: The Wendigo - Algernon Blackwood
Genre: Crossdressing, F/F, Fem!Defago, Fem!Simpson, Genderswap, I mean it's the 1800s modern queer terminology doesnt apply, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 01:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Simpson has never met someone like her before.





	Hunger

It is known to everyone in their Canadian wilderness expedition that young Simpson was once part of a family, and that his mother and father, as well as both his sisters, perished when their train jumped the rails. It was a most ungodly accident; train cars were smashed to pieces and dangling over the river from the tracks. Bodies lay dismembered on the shore or floating in the river, some of them trapped by the weight of their car on the riverbed. Some of those who lived emerged from their cars half-naked, their clothing in rags.

Young Simpson was one of these. He was found entirely naked, shielded only by some unknown gentleman’s winter coat, and he was sent to his dear uncle, Dr. Cathcart, for recovery.

If Dr. Cathcart ever discovered that his young nephew was in fact a niece, then he never made this knowledge known. 

* * *

She had always wished to be a boy. She’d cut her hair short when she was far too old to be mischievously cutting her own hair, and Father had whipped her for it, and promised she would grow it out again whether she wanted to or not.

But the train wreck happened first, and that month or so of short-haired freedom had so exhilarated her that when she crawled from the wreckage with a dead man’s coat over her naked body, dress torn to shreds in the accident, and a stranger called her ‘lad,’ young Simpson didn’t correct him.

She was thirteen then. Since the age of eleven, she’d been stealing her younger brother’s clothes. He was of a height with her, and it was no trouble at all to sneak into his room at night, to pilfer trousers and shirts and waistcoats from his wardrobe, to pin her hair up under a hat and steal into the city as a boy.

The other boys  — the street rats  — thought her one of their own. They accepted her false name without batting an eye, and that small favor sent a thrill through her body like nothing else. 

There were complications, of course, after the accident. Her breasts formed, and in desperation she bound them with a strip of cloth and wore that strip every hour of the day, even sleeping, in the hopes that this new curse would strangle to death and never bother her again. 

She bled -- sporadically and lightly, but with no one to turn to for advice. And in time, Dr. Cathcart began to worry, as any man would, over his nephew’s willowy frame and high voice, and the adolescence which never seemed to dawn.

She didn’t let it bother her. She joined the Wee Kirk and no one questioned her.

She went on a trip to Canada to prove her manhood.

* * *

As soon as she sees Défago, her heart aches with familiarity. Here is a man  — a real man  — who looks just like her. Short and slim and youthful, his face unmarred by a beard, his voice a little high. 

He looks at her.

She looks at him.

Something passes between them; when it comes time to split up the party in the ever-more-desperate search for moose, young Simpson says,

“Défago, with me.”

And Défago says,

“Aye, boss,” and tries to hide a smile.

* * *

They share a tent. At night, with the fire still glowing outside, they arrange their pine boughs into a soft, fragrant bed and lie down in the cramped quarters.

Both are fully-clothed. Neither questions the other; it’s difficult to change in such a small tent. But still, Simpson can’t stop thinking about it, about her arm touching Défago’s arm, her thigh brushing up against his. She lays there for hours, unable to sleep, her ribcage aching.

When she finally drifts off, she dreams that Défago is like her. She dreams of soft skin and unbound breasts hidden underneath those thick layers of animal furs he wears. She dreams that Défago shifts atop the pine boughs to stare into her eyes, his lips thin and pink and chapped, his eyes bright.

He grabs her hand. He guides it underneath his coat, into the waistband of his deerskin trousers, and leaves her stroking his soft folds, the wetness of his arousal slicking her fingers, filling the tent with the musk of sex. 

He tastes delicious.

He feels even better.

* * *

She wakes with an ache between her legs and the sound of Défago’s muffled sobs in her ears. She turns to him, blinks the last, lingering vapors of sleep out of her eyes.

Défago is fully clothed again, his furs tangled around him. The tent smells of nothing but pine. 

“Défago,” Simpson whispers, and winces at how feminine her voice sounds. “Défago, are you alright?”

He doesn’t answer. She leans over to him, puts her hand on his shoulder  — his fragile, narrow shoulder  — and sees that his eyes are squeezed shut, that he has pulled the blanket up to his mouth and is using it to muffle his tears. 

That he’s crying in his sleep.

What does he have to cry about? Simpson wonders. She moves her hand down from his shoulder to his chest, and if there are any breasts there, they’re so small and unformed that Simpson cannot feel them. Just like hers are now, after years of compressing them even in her sleep.

She touches Défago’s waist. His slender, cinched waist, hidden so perfectly beneath his hides and furs.

What does he have to cry about?


End file.
